I love a man in a suit. Well, I love the idea of a man in a suit anyway – sadly many actual men who habitually wear suits are dickheads.

So, hello unknown Men In Suits. Do you know what the sight of you does to me? Can you tell what’s going on in my head when I catch sight of you?

A well-fitted suit speaks to me of power, authority and responsibility. I want to submit to that power, feel that authority. I yearn to break through that professional detachment and make you forget your responsibilities until you can see only me, feel only me, want only what I can offer you.

I want you not to let me burrow under those neatly-tailored barricades of fabric. Keep your cool, reach with your hands but turn your head. Keep your suit on.

In my mind, I am standing naked before you in your office. The door is closed and from outside comes the low hum and clatter of people and technology. In here is silence.

You tug off that smart tie and use it to cover my eyes, knotting it firmly at the back of my head. You’re not interested in eye contact right now.

You don’t know my name and I don’t know yours – to me, you are the Man In The Suit; for you, I am just another executive accessory to distract you from the never ending flow of decisions and demands on your attention.

Pull me close so I can feel the fabric of your clothes rubbing against my skin as I twine myself around you. The contrast between your formal attire and my nakedness makes me feel wanton, you are Someone and I am someone’s fucktoy; here to fulfil just one purpose – to be used for your pleasure.

Push me to my knees, undo your flies, and stroke my hair with one hand as I suck you to hardness. The other hand still holds your phone in case you need to take an urgent call – you’d answer and talk business, still thrusting lazily into my willing, open mouth until the conversation ended. Then you’d look down at me with mild surprise, as though I’d ceased to exist while your mind was elsewhere, even as my tongue flickers over your shaft and your glans pushes rhythmically at the back of my throat.

Uncover my eyes. Pull me up, bend me over your desk, bind my wrists and fuck me from behind, taking me with firm fast strokes; you are busy and have important work to be done. This is just a routine break for you, no more significant than a refreshing cup of coffee snatched between meetings or a quick cigarette before you check your emails. Maybe you have one eye on your laptop as you thrust into me, maybe you’re looking out of the window and planning the next move in a corporate strategy while your hands roam across my soft yielding curves. Perhaps you don’t even notice that your breathing is becoming faster and heavier, that your body is moving more urgently against mine.

You grunt once, softly, as your hips buck and your come is spilled inside me. It’s a sound of contented satisfaction that you might make at a particularly good golf swing or an unexpectedly swift-arriving taxi. Your hands don’t linger on my bottom when you pull yourself free, your gaze doesn’t skim over the slick wet slit you’ve been using or my sweat-glistened back. You merely turn away, tucking yourself back in and rearranging your disarrayed trousers, retrieving your tie and replacing it neatly around your neck. Your mind is already on the next deal, the next challenge, just another task in another busy day.

When you leave the room without a backward glance, it is my turn. I fuck myself violently with the fingers of both hands, pinch my swollen nipples, smear your come across my lips and lick it off in ecstasy. Here is the pleasure you did not think to give me, these are the sensations of the anonymous women who has been taken, used and left; simultaneously deeply fulfilled yet still desperately aroused. When I reach orgasm only minutes after your departure, I notice your silk handkerchief lying beside me on the desk and draw it across my dripping, twitching cunt until it is soaked with our mingled juices.

I dress, repair my hair and makeup until I am once again the busy professional. As I leave the room, the only clues to our encounter only the slight flush on my face and the darkened handkerchief lying on the desk.

I kind of like the idea of the Man in the Suit being the objectified one. You don’t need to know his name. He just has to do what feels good. Also, I agree. I love seeing a man in a suit. I don’t need it, but I definitely enjoy it. 🙂